Ach du

Ach, ach du, the same spew

On and on the wheel rolls

And coils like an unending cigar

Burning ridiculously into a third degree.

These must be the same creatures

That wouldn’t pick me when making a team.

These must be those who dragged me

When pulling the rope behind the school,

In Phys Ed.

Repeating the same exercises of childhood

Well into their fleeting adulthood.

Pathetic? Oh no.

A waste of time perhaps

Still dragging all with their unbreaking rope

Of hope

Right into the mud, sssssleet, gravel

Well into the barren platanal.

Soil that has forgotten, 

Recycled all the further generations

To perpetuate the perpetual.

Perpetuate the on and on, ach du.

“Move aside kid, man, we’ve got

a plan, a plan, a plan, solutions to… too.” and I fill in 

the blanks.

Solutions to further complicate

Extradicate

What a kid from kinder could have understood

Without continuing in his education:

That creatures remain creatures 

In the passing of time 

Without the need of scrutiny from so-called

Experts

To make it valid.

Validate idiocy, yeah, go on.

Increase the dose, please. 

Katrina and the waves

“Katrina and the waves,

Katrina and the waves.”

Lady Bush with dried

Menstrual blotches

Irregular

On her swollen labia.

Hillary’s vagina

Itchy

Unbearable

With six days of dried 

Volcanic fluid.

Losing patience

Bush (daddy) sits patiently

Off to the side 

In a wheel chair

Off to the side (motionless)

Smelling of canker 

Festering on his byproduct.

Seventeen cents up

Twentyeight cents up.

Mr. Rivera would rather have

Another chair on his nose

Rather than carry

That baby headed to the grave.

Without a bottle of formula.

Mutiny! Mutiny!

Throw him off!

There

Right in the French Quarter.

Let him float on the feces

Of the poor

Of the minorities

Of the blacks

Of the elders

Of the children

Of the disadvantaged

After having eaten Rice

Off Broadway.

Let him float on the feces

On the oil

Of his own damaged rigs.

Let’s gather a convoy

Of empty vehicles.

Favre and Gulliani to the lead

Grab them all

And ship them out.

Lifetime tax breaks for them all. (Who?)

Bring their children from Iraq.

They’ve given all their patriotism

By being in the Superdome

For six days.

Six,

Count them.

And still counting

Still counting.

O’Donnell may blog anger

But know

She’s drinking tea

In a controlled enviroment.

Mea Culpa.

“Oh, where, Oh where

Did Cheney go?”

Choppers hover in search of him.

At least we have forgotten 

About Holloway

And the missing groom

And Grease’s hottie fiancée. 

Twenty-six cents up.

More days and still…

“I’m walking on sunshine

wo, oh”

Mea Culpa.

Nevarez is watching 

The U.S. Open

Mea Culpa

Castro and Chavez

Show empathy

While Robertson

slow to comment

although he was fairly 

quick 

to suggest their deaths.

“Oh - 

That’s where our troops are.”

Looking for Castro and Chavez

They’ll be back 

Soon enough

With their heads on the platter

To feed the dispossessed

For daddy

And Robertson

And all their offerings

To the ‘nearlineans efforts.

Be patient people

They know what they’re doing

They’ve done it before

In the school system

And with our social security.

They’ve done it before.

For the minoritary Ninety five percent.

Be patient.

Sure, break into the malls

In the meantime.

But they’ll get there.

Free tickets for everyone

Who lasts it out.

Free tickets to see 

Rice and Junior

In “The Producers”

Directed by Bill O’Reilly.

Gumbo for everyone in the preshow

Jambalaya for all.

“I’m walking on sunshine

wo, oh.”

“We’d rather be in Iraq, Sir.

At least there you can shoot them

And not feel guilty.”

How come Austin Powers

Remained quiet alongside

The guy married to the golddigger?

How come Tucker

Is vocal about brother Michael

And not about the guy married to the golddigger?

“I guess we’ll never know.”

“Oh, where, Oh where

Did Cheney go?”

All aboard!

Next stop

Drop off of Junior

In the French Quarter

Followed by 

A drop off of the rest 

In Biloxi, MS.

Mutiny! Mutiny!

Is the 44^th in yet?

Praying over Dirty Ground 7:17 AM

Photo by Daniel Nevarez

Wooden frame

Passing shade

Clouds drift under perfect blue

Swaying cloth

Slanted breath

Children pray over dirty ground

Innocent lips

Frail hands

Broken under mighty boots

Curious minds

Harboring hope

Crushed under spurious truth

Winds blow

Ashes and dust

As children pray over broken ground

 

Tick (or Yet another sleepless night) 7:09 AM

1:37 – Nose is congested.

1:38 – Where are my sandals.

1:39 – This is the 50^th time I’ve seen my wife’s face within the past 3 minutes.

1:40 – Oh, Fuck me!

1:41 – God’s voice, I hear it.

1:42 – What’s that droning?

1:43 – That’s my right hand. It has five digits… just like my zip code.

1:44 – At times it lulls me. Other times it keeps me awake.

1:45 – That droning is doing something to me.

1:50 – I must have dozed off…

1:51 – The drone of a plane lulls me.

1:52 – The voice of God tries to break through the morass in my head.

1:53 – Right eye surveys.

1:54 – Who the fuck is that?

1:55 – It’s incessant.

1:56 – Try as I might, can’t find an origin, a final note. No ringing, but better than any ticking.

1:58 – Got distracted.

1:59 – What is my zip code?

2:00 – 157^th time and counting.

2:01 – I think that’s God again.

2:02 – Half asleep.

2:03 – A transformer blew out, I think.

2:04 – Oh, so it was the fan all along.

2:05 – 00926 or 01054?

2:06 – ……………

2:07 – If I lost a finger, like Chago, then…

2:08 – Where are my sandals?

2:09 – Mom, can I have some more?

2:10 – I think that’s the cell phone vibrating.

2:11 – Footsteps are near. Whoever it is, they’re walking on sandals, my sandals!

2:12 – I do not fear anymore.

2:13 – It is soft here.

2:14 – The droning has died out.

2:15 – This silence, I can get used to.

At the top of my lungs... (Para Nana) 12:52 PM

Photo by Daniel Nevarez

At the top of my lungs

Your name readies its flight.

 

This melody

Which strains for presence

Dissolves into a beautiful imperfection:

The sound of genuine veneration.

 

Fortunate ears

That come within its reach

As it flutters

Assent to the truth

-- that it must not lack any witnesses.

 

The motions…

 

Attest to this need.

 

At the top of my lungs

The word steps off…

Many hear the miracle,

As we remain deafened in its splendor.

 

Pause 12:52 PM

Photo by Daniel Nevarez

Mother, where is the pause?

The promised clarity,

            The awaited present

                        The evoked now?

Succor dries my palate

The eyelid, a screen

Where ephemera is projected

Desires

Memories and rejections

The illusion filters the light

A blot appears on it

The apparent registers the night

Disappears instantly

Where is that pause?

This unceasing thread

Ever moving,

Ever present,

A continuum that demands the self

Boils over through my dual screen

And oozes, a slave to the pull

 

Mother,

You gave me all,

            When all I really wanted

            Was

And is the instant

And a goodnight’s kiss.

 

 

Something Like It Is... 12:14 PM

Photo by Daniel Nevarez

Something like it is…

Something like It is…

A dog laps

At my cupped hand

The nectar, a souvenir,

A liquid memory, my only possession

Prickly tongue, porous skin

Wind ripples the coat of fur,

The lake as well,

My harboring mind.

Like the fish and wine

The nourishment eternal,

Not mine, to benefit,

Mine, to give, to aid

From the chill of November

The sun flickers, hangs,

As the dog wags in delight.

A body of water empties out

A body of water empties

A body empties